


temporary gloryhound

by LadyPrince



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 23:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17776250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyPrince/pseuds/LadyPrince
Summary: Abel has always assumed that the glory he will get will only be on the battlefield, where no one else will ever miss the way his body burns up into nothingness as Colterons take his life finally, when he knows that no one besides his mother will really miss him. How is he to be glorious if he can't shoot a gun to defend himself? That is where Ethos and Deimos [accidentally] come along.





	temporary gloryhound

**Author's Note:**

> This took at least two hours and forty five minutes to write.
> 
> Title and theme inspiration taken from _Right Hand Man_ from the Hamilton Musical.

There isn’t any greater glory than to die in a battlefield, is there? At least, that is what Abel has sold to himself. He looks at his hands and imagines the way it would feel when he has to grab a gun and defend himself, with no Cain or Praxis or even Deimos around to save him from the Colterons. He should probably take the times in which he is barely awake, at three in the morning where Cain is curled up and far, far away in his own dreams, to go and practice in the shooting range.

Who is to tell whether or not he will live to see tomorrow? Maybe he will die in his sleep from a stress-induced heart-attack, maybe he will just suffer total organ failure for no reason, maybe they will be attacked by the Colterons and he will be one of the few casualties of such an onslaught.

What better glory is there than to die in the battlefield? His father won’t approve, he knows he won’t, and his mother will weep and weep and weep until she has nothing more to give. His death won’t mean anything to his father, won’t give to him that far-too-late satisfaction, and he has no one else waiting for him back on Earth.

His uncles are dead, his friends few and far between, and not many of them - none of them - know that he has gone off into Colteron territory just to chase after a fleeting moment of _self._ It isn’t even the glory that he wants, no. He just wants…

 

He wakes up at three in the morning, like he is wont to do now. Cain is turned away from him, his body splayed out while Abel’s has curled up into a tight, anxious ball, and he relaxes out with each gradual exhale and inhale. He gets up, quietly side-steps Cain, and heads off into the bathroom to change before he is silently slipping away from the room, from his Fighter.

Everyone is asleep; the digital clocks glare out a hateful _three-o-seven_ at him, chastising him for being awake and nearly commanding him to go back to sleep, and he is almost tempted to listen to the sleep-deprived audio hallucination. His limbs are heavy as he drags himself further and further away from his Bunk until he is heading off into the shared shooting range.

It is meant for Navigator and Fighter to both use, but the sheer presence of the Fighters often tends to chase every Navigator away, with the few exceptions being Cook, Dionysus, and Pathos. The range is empty right now, or well - it should be. When the doors slide open, it is to reveal to him the sound of gunshots, and of two figures standing side by side while they shoot at the targets.

At the far too loud hiss of the door opening, one of them freezes and the other turns to look at him with his pale, listless eyes, and Abel exhales. “Ethos? Deimos?” he calls out, his voice so small and weak that he almost fears that Ethos didn’t hear him, but his worry is unfounded when the gun drops with a clatter and the other Navigator is turning around to face him with an enthusiastic grin. “What are you doing here?”

“Practicing!” Ethos calls out as he bends down to pick his gun back up, holding the sleek design by its muzzle as he turns to face Abel. “Practicing,” Ethos repeats, “because Deimos offered to help me.” he blinks in surprise. “Deimos is a great gunsman,” Ethos explains, as if that really does explain anything, “and well… I wanted to get better with guns.”

“Why?” Abel says curiously, and Ethos spins the gun around with practiced ease, almost looking like a Western-movie cowboy, and he relaxes at that silly thought.

It takes maybe a few moments for Ethos to finally respond, those seconds of silence stretching out into a deep discomfort, and Abel is about to respond until he says, “because if I ever wanted to kill a Fighter for hurting me or my friends, I want to be able to do so without being scared.”

The answer floors him. Deimos’ lips curl into an eerie smile that doesn’t reach the glimmer in his eyes and Abel is rooted in his spot, unable to do anything other than _exhale_ because how is he supposed to react to Ethos’ answer? “Why would you ever need to kill a Fighter?”

Ethos shrugs. “You can’t be too safe,” he says, his words thrown out uncomfortably casually, and Abel breathes in sharply, “do you wanna learn how to handle a gun, Abel?”

The gun is stretched out to him, held in a not-so-frail man’s gentle, delicate grip, being offered to him like how he offers him his coffee during far-too-busy days, and Abel thinks that this isn’t for him. He stares at the dangerous tool dangling simply between Ethos’ elegant fingers, recalls how he has been so comfortable handling it just moments prior to Abel’s interruption, and he doesn’t know if he wants this. Does he really, really want to be part of whatever this is?

Deimos looks at him expectantly, gaze sharp and eyes roving over him, his body leaning in closer as if to inspect him critically, and Ethos is patient while he stands there. The gun makes his stomach flip.

“I’d like to,” Abel stumbles over to say, “I’d like to learn how to use a gun. But not to kill a Fighter.”

Ethos smiles. “Right,” he agrees absentmindedly, “not to kill your Fighter.” Deimos shrugs, shakes his head, and then motions at Abel to come forward and to step up to the booth, with Ethos moving away so that he has space to work in.

Deimos’ hands on his arms, on his hips, on his body is so sure, so confident, moving him to stand in the way he wants Abel to, and he is silent as he helps fix his stance, the way he holds his gun, and he doesn’t have to say anything. He taps Abel on his upper thigh, thrice, and he squeezes the trigger.

The sound is thunderously loud in his ears.

 

Cain chases after him that morning when he isn’t back before he is awake, looking wild and crazed, and Abel himself is nearly on the edge of a panic attack and his Fighter just sends him tumbling over. He sees Cain, sees the pure rage on his face, the way his teeth are grit together, and he can’t breathe. He doubles over himself, clutches his chest, and starts hyperventilating and Cain, at the very least, stops himself from doing whatever it is that he wants to do to Abel when he sees the state he is in.

He tries to breathe through his nose, but all he can smell is the gunpower, smoke, and alcohol that seems to emanate from Cain’s pores, smelling absolutely terrible and yet familiar, and that just makes his gasps and heaves even harder to control. His fingers dig into his chest and he falls into a squat, hands resting on his ears, and he thinks he may be crying.

Cain stands there, snarling, unable to really do or say anything to him that will snap Abel out of this, and all he does is just breathe in and out with aborted breaths, his lungs working hard to provide him with air, and he thinks he may pass out from the sheer panic.

“Deimos? The fuck ya doin’ here?” Cain’s voice breaks through the fog briefly, and Abel realizes than that someone is touching the back of his neck, rubbing at the fine, short hairs there, and he tilts backwards and nearly falls onto his back and drags that person down with him thanks to that little movement.

Those fingers pinch a chastisement into his skin, then curl over so that those knuckles can press and rub into him, forcing out the unease and knots with those few movements, and Abel is finally able to breathe. He gasps at first, eyes shut tightly, tears slipping down the sides of his face, and the world comes into sharp focus when his lungs are getting the oxygen they need, when he isn’t so scared anymore.

Deimos is kneeling behind him, his expression unreadable and his eyes wide, beautiful, and glowing with something dangerous. “What did ya do?” Cain asks, the ire in his voice gone, and Deimos looks up at him then back down at Abel. “He functionin’ again? Fuck, Navis are so damn hard to work with.”

He feels Deimos shrugs, realizing that he is being half-cradled, half-cushioned by the other man, and Abel exhales heavily then forces himself away, stands up, and bows his head down as he walks past Cain. He looks over his shoulder briefly to see Cain growling at Deimos, who has a halting hand on the small of his back, and Abel looks away when he makes eye contact with the shorter, mousier Fighter, and wonders if he can make it through the rest of the day with barely any sleep.

Yet when he gets to work, Ethos is there, and he is smiling and kind, so soft and mild-mannered as he gives Abel his sweetened coffee, pets his cheek, and then heads off to his station console so that he can get to work on figuring out how to translate the Colteron language.

He nearly cries at his own station when lines of code stare back at him, but he squares his shoulders and marches on through it, and then realizes that once the shock of it all is gone he feels… liberated. Empowered. _Entitled,_ almost.

When Ethos is about to leave Abel stops him. Puts a hand on his elbow, then curls his fingers around it into a tight clasp, and says, “can I join you for practice from now on?” he asks, and Ethos looks at him with that sweet, innocent gaze, with that lovely expression, and smiles.

“Of course. It’s at three in the morning though, sorry.”

“That’s okay. Thank you.”

 

His body is aching sore from Cain’s treatment, because he is _still_ angry over Abel being gone in the morning, and he realizes he has to figure out when his Fighter wakes up to avoid his ire from then on. His legs shake with each step he takes, his body blooming with bruises and bites, and he runs his hands through his own hair before he is heading off to the shooting range.

Deimos and Ethos are there, without fail, and they haven’t started yet; they seem to be talking in sign language, and Abel can’t recognize it even briefly so he assumes that it must be Russian, because Ethos is smart and a polyglot, and Deimos is… quiet, silent, but not mute.

They look up when the door clicks shut, their conversation coming to an abrupt halt, and Ethos is always smiling. The smile is tender, makes him think of cotton candy at the carnival that his aunt used to sneak him away to before she has been killed, and Abel’s heart slams against his ribcage. The gun is in Ethos’ hand again, the glint of it accusatory and harsh.

“You ready for today?” he asks. Deimos is staring at him, his gaze just as patient as Ethos’.

“Yeah, of course.”

The gun is still heavy and burdensome in his hand, but it feels only minutely lighter than before, and he feels less incompetent this time when Deimos steps behind him once more to fix his stance. Ethos actually gives him verbal orders, doesn’t leave Abel in the dark this time, and it takes a bit of concentration to focus on them both and to remember what they are teaching him with his exhausted mind.

“You’ll stop at a quarter to five,” Ethos says, “Deimos says that Cain wakes up at five-twenty-five.”

The fingers on his hips dig in.

“You’re too tense.” Ethos chastises.

The sound is still thunderous in his ears when he takes the first shot, but it gets easier with each consecutive bullet shot.

 

He has been getting less and less sleep, but that doesn’t bother him as much as it should. Keeler has acquiesced to Ethos’ requests to give Abel three hour breaks in between all his workhours, so he gets to make up for his lack of sleep by taking naps instead. Ethos has been gently cajoling into going to sleep at a normal time so that he can actually have some rest. He points out that it will help him learn how to use a gun better, and he says it is all-around just _better_ for Abel, and he can’t help but nod along and agree with what Ethos has to say. Deimos is always there as well; silent, except for when he is signing at Ethos, but a heavy, heavy presence that reminds Abel of how not alone he is.

The Fighter guides him along with extremely gentle touches and strong hands away from work when Ethos sends him along to find him, Phobos always looking so affronted at the sight of Deimos but never saying anything when Keeler and Cook are right there. Abel thinks he likes that frustrated look on his face, the look of someone trying his hardest not to lash out at someone so ‘inferior’ to him, and he appreciates Deimos all the more for being a pillar in his life now.

He brings Abel tea, swats Ethos away when he tries to give him coffee, and he begins to like the taste of sweetened earl grey more than he expects to.

Even when he gets better with his stance, can actually shoot properly without being thrown off by the recoil or needing his stance physically fixed, Deimos still stands behind him and settles his hands on his hips. Ethos laughs at that, says Deimos does that with him too when Abel ducks off to go to sleep, and he doesn’t know why his heart is running at a hare’s pace in his chest. He gasps for air and that gets Ethos’ concern, makes the sweet serenade of his laugh come to an abrupt stop, and Abel smiles sheepishly at him.

Deimos’ fingers slide down his hips, trace across his upper thighs, and Abel sighs heavily. Ethos’ gaze on him is dark, telling. There is something hanging over them all, a veil that is going to be thrown off and reveal the surprise, and Abel lets his mouth part to relax a sweet gasp.

He doesn’t react at the sound of the gun going off, not much anyway. It really isn’t that bad anymore.

 

“You’re different lately.” Phobos says to him while he grabs some water in the mess deck, glaring half-heartedly at Abel while he sips from the plastic cup. “And my Fighter has been different lately too. What have you done to him?”

Porthos’ stare burns through him and Phobos is so curious, not sounding mean or catty for once, and Abel just looks at the bland soup in his tray and hums.

“I haven’t done anything,” Abel says, “but I do feel way, way more confident lately. I think it’s from sleeping properly. You should try it out, Phobos; I’m actually worried for you. Keeler said you barely slept last night.”

Phobos sneers. “I don’t need you to be worried about me!” he says hotly, but his voice is wavering and his face is flushing, his eyes looking away. Porthos’ attention snaps back to Phobos and he follows after him to make sure the latter is doing fine, concern sitting on the tip of his tongue but never tumbling out, and Abel can’t help but feel sorry for them both. He looks over to see Ethos scooting over to give him room, waving at him with a big, wide grin while Praxis gives him a lovesick-heartsick look.

He gets it now, but he does feel sorry. Feels pity for the taller Fighter.

His heart is already full, and it swells with warmth as he sits next to Ethos and listens to him chatter on about linguistics, about his day, and about everything else.

Dying on the battlefield doesn’t sound that great anymore, not when he feels Ethos sidle up closer to him to whisper his real name in his ear, _just in case we’re done with our service and we want to find each other again,_ and Abel whispers a promise to tell him his own when all three of them are present.

“You promised!” Ethos says enthusiastically with a big grin on his face, all while Praxis looks at them curiously and Abel can feel the way Cain’s glare is burning holes into his body. Let him stare jealously, Abel thinks.

They won’t last long together, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> [ Pillowfort. ](https://www.pillowfort.social/transistor) | [ Tumblr. ](https://transistories.tumblr.com/) | [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/EmptyHeartLover)


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